not me, my dad
back when i was a babe in arms my folks moved in to their first home. a decorating frenzy ensues and late one night my dad(19 at the time) and my dads brother(about 15/16) were scraping wallpaper only to find a door with no handle, just a keyhole. obviously my old man thought i've got another room/cupboard, lets get it open. grabbing a coathanger he sets about undoing the lock, with a loud snick he and my uncle proceed to pry it open. it came ajar with a massive ripping noise followed by a blood curdling scream. needless to say my dad and uncle shit themselves and nearly killed each other getting out of room.

turns out the entire row of terraced houses used to be dormitory for trainee priests and all the now seperate houses are now connected by doors and the pair of silly twats had ripped a door shaped hole in the neighbours wallpaper
(studdley ruffrodno crack too slack, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 13:48,
12 replies)

I nearly died man.
I had being going out with the to be Mrs Ring of Fire for a little while, and earlier in the day had given her a copy of my front door key.

How did the love of my life react to me moving the relationship to the next level? The very first night of key ownership she waited until 2am, let herself in, snuck into my bedroom, knelt down putting her mouth about an inch from my ear and using a back of the throat gurgle said "I'VE COME FOR YOUR SOUL"
(Ring Of FireA petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Fri 8 Apr 2011, 21:54,
11 replies)

The night our dog died
When our family dog died, I was in my early twenties still living in the home I was raised, an Indian family in the suburbs of London

As anyone who has had a pet will know, it was devastating for all of us and it marks the one creepy story in my life

The evening that our dog passed away, my younger brother walked into my bedroom at about 2am and quietly asked if i was awake. Of course, that did the trick and I said I was. "Can you hear that?". With such a question, I was wide awake in a nano second and sitting upright. I strained to pick out what he seemed to hear very obviously, but couldnt hear anything. he repeated twice "there, can't you hear that?". I might add at this point that my Brother is very level head-headed. Very anti drugs and anti anything that results in loss of mental self control, very stoic... So i did not think then, or now, that he was imagining it and asked him what he could hear. "I can hear Dad outside calling me"

I got out of bed and in my sleepy state, I imagined that perhaps our Father had gone sleep walking or got stuck outside (why, I didnt know, but I was trying to match scenarios to what my Brother was telling me). He had never done either. So, we walked to my Parents room and peered into the darkness. I quietly called out "Dad?" and he woke with a slight start obviously a bit suprised to have both his adult sons looking in to the room. This time my brother just said he could hear a voice in the garden and now the whole family was awake

What followed would be comical if it wasn't so odd at the time. We all quietly trooped downstairs and I picking up the nearest solid object as now I supposed there must be an intruder in our back garden

Our garden is accessed by huge sliding glass doors. It means that you can see the outside clearer than the inside because of the ambient light from the street. As we walked towards the doors, it was obvious that the garden was empty

Again, my brother asked "Cant you all hear that???" By now he was slightly bewildered more than anything. My Father asked "what exactly can you hear?" and he told him what he told me orginally "Dad, I can hear YOU calling out to me". I still remember my Father's reaction when he asked him to repeat what he just said. My Father's face showed a sense of recognition & sadness. He seemed to nod.. He looked out at the garden and said to all of us "everyone go to sleep, I am going to stay up a while"

At this point I just thought the whole thing was rather silly and happily trooped up to bed, and was asleep immediately

The next morning, I came downstairs and of course asked what all that was about. My brother was already awake, but my Father was waiting for me to get up before saying anything

My father is a hindu. The religion is the world's oldest major religion and is a unique combination of culturally led traditions, supersitions & dogma. My Father is a humble man and never imposed the religion on us London born boys (he even sent us to Roman Catholic Schools without blinking). So he chose words knowing that his audience were in many ways removed from his beliefs, neither familiar nor overly skeptical

he told us that according to Hindu belief, when animals die, they dont know that they have passed on. Humans know that they have died, so, unless they have 'unfinished' business, they dont hang about. But pets want to come back into the home that they have lived in for years. As they are on the outside, they call out to someone in the family in a human voice that this person will recognise in the hope that they will let them in.

I went quite cold, and my Brother was so unnerved, his face actually went completely blank

My Father then said that he had sat facing the garden and prayed for our pet dog and told her to go in peace.

I never questioned my Brother about it and he did not defend what he said he had heard nor started to fob it off as something imagined

Devil dog
I've not often partaken of the jazz cigarette since uni - but at a get-together with the old crowd, disgusting quanities of drink were imbibed, and it seemed like a good idea to relive past glories. All was well with the world.

Until I got home, and let the dogs out. Standing outside, breathing the fresh air, enjoying the light, misty rain and trying to sober up a bit, I saw something staring at me from within the hedges at the top of the garden. Baleful, unblinking, it neither moved nor made a sound. Just those huge, wideset eyes, reflecting the light of the moon, full of malevolent, silent menace.

As silently and quickly as I was able, I got the dogs back into the house and shakily wondered what I should do. The garden's fenced all around - so whatever got in would struggle to get out, and I couldn't keep the dogs inside forever. But the *size* of the thing - my initial htoughts had been maybe a stray pitbull, or English terrier - but the eyes were too wide, too large for that. Half-remembered stories of big cat sightings arose unbidden in my mind, and were hurriedly pushed back down.

Drunken wisdom allowed for only one course of action. Nervously, heart beating quicker than it had any right to, I put on a heavy jacket, grabbed a hammer and a fishing knife, and slowly crept up the garden, away from the comforting lights of the house, into the stygian gloom.

Still, it did not move. Still, it did not blink. Its steely basilisk gaze never left mine, and seemed to turn my muscles to cold stone. Forcing myself forwards, I edged further into the dark, into the hedges, to meet my adversary face to face.

And that's more or less how I ended up pissed, stoned, and scared, at the top of my garden, at three in the morning, in the rain, menacing two knot-holes in the fence lit from behind by the security light on a granny flat.

I was the Creepy
for roughly a year I was homeless in a semi rural area up north. Home was a £4 two man tent from asda plus sleeping bag and a shed full of cardboard for insulation . Which was ok in the summer months with the clear starry nights and the sitting out until 9pm on a fishing chair with a good book, wind up radio and watching the bats at sunset.

however come October the area I'd picked, through some woods on the steep bank of a disused railway line, would be pitch black even in moonlight. The only way to navigate a route was by torch, most of which was uphill through dense bush and trees. Without doubt the hardest part psychologically was heading into the woods around 6pm after dinner. Inside the tent was no problem and sticking the radio on always lifted the spirits (fond memories of Radcliffe and Maconie). Even the little scratching at 2am on the plasic sheeting by the furry locals became comforting after a while.

the biggest problem was avoiding detection as the area was passed on the outskirts by dog walkers and people taking short cuts from a pub further down. And for the 11 months I was there I was never discovered as I would leave the tent at around 6am, deflate it, cover and camouflage it and make the gym for 7. Even in the snow I would cover up my fresh footprints with a branch to avoid detection by early morning dog walkers. Apart from being buzzed by a police helicopter one time(odd heat signature in middle of woods I'm assuming) I was convinced I'd got away with it. I can remember a few times dreaming of being trapped in a box and waking to find myself in full scream fighting to get out the tent. Christ knows what a local passer by must have thought.

The creepy was when I was zipped and wrapped one night and I heard a bunch of kids coming from the direction of the pub around midnight taking the shortcut. I cut the radio and waited for them to pass. When they got near among all the banter I heard the phrase "... watch out for the man..."

And it made me think back to my childhood with all the stories of strange lone men hanging around the woods. Turns out I'd become the local bogey man to these kids. I'd become that creepy guy from my childhood.

sometimes the creepy just depends on the viewpoint.

I should also point out that the entire episode was voluntary and I still had a full time well paid job for the entire duration. However I could think of no better way to save a substantial amount of money in a very short space of time for a project I was doing abroad. But it did change me profoundly and is a big influence on the volunteer work I now do.

(drop to railway line on left, woods to the right)

HIghlights: sleeping with the roof off in summer under the stars, playing with the bats at sunset, hot showers at gym, podcasts, books and radio shows snuggled up in tent and early morning foxes. Low lights: early morning putting the tent away, thorn bushes, slugs in tent, freezing balls off in -12 during one week in Feb, trying to keep the beddings dry, and pissing in protein shaker bottle in sleeping bag at 4am.
(Clayhopes this bit is long enough to promote my websi, Thu 7 Apr 2011, 21:29,
13 replies)

Distant (Murdered) Relatives
My grandfather's uncle was in the merchant navy - he travelled around the world quite a bit, seeing various sights, but ended his days in San Francisco, where he was unlucky enough to get caught up in a bar brawl and get stabbed to death by an unknown assailant - the 1900's were rough times!

My grandfather (his nephew) was also in the merchant navy, and again travelled the world, seeing the sights. One day his ship ended up in San Francisco, and knowing his uncle had been here before him, decided to go for a tour of the town (avoiding any rough drinking dens on the advice of the rest of his family).

As is obligatory in San Francisco he went for a tramcar ride. He boarded the tram and took a seat, looking out at the sights of the city. After a few stops a small, elderly gentleman got on the back of the car and made his way down to the front, looking for a seat. As the tram was quite busy my grandfather got up to offer him a seat. On seeing my grandfather the old man turned white as a sheet, screamed, and jumped off the now fast-moving tram and ran off down the street.

There's a strong family resemblance on that side of the family, and while it might have been pure coincidence, its always nice to think that this elderly man, haunted by a murder committed 30 years earlier, suddenly came face-to-face with the ghost of the man he'd killed all those years ago.
(Mattle, Mon 11 Apr 2011, 12:40,
2 replies)

My Grandmother told a tale
A tale of nightmarish pursuit. It happened while she was returning from the shops through the woods pushing a pram containing my infant father, and it turned her prematurely grey.

In those days prams were quite big affairs, and were ideal for carrying shopping home as well as the baby and in this case some wheeled help was very useful, since the path took her along a long and fairly rough path through these woods. Well, she'd got to a particularly dark area, deep in a gully and shaded by trees, when she heard footsteps following her, and quite close by. She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

The footsteps stopped. There was nobody on the path behind her.

Hm.

Nothing for it but to push on; and as soon as she did so the footsteps started up again. She walked a bit faster. After a moment the footsteps went a bit faster too. And by god they sounded close. She glanced over her shoulder and saw only the gloom of the forest behind her. She stopped again to listen, and a moment later the footsteps stopped too.

By the time she came out of the woods she was travelling at speed, and the footsteps were sounding like they were in desperate pursuit.

Finally she burst out of the woods and into the sunlight and the dread spectre was revealed, and it wasn't all that dreadful after all. My father had been digging in the shopping bags and had liberated two kippers which he was flapping against the sides of the pram. Going faster was more exciting, so he'd flap them harder. Stopping was boring, so the flapping stopped.

(History does not record whether the kippers were still brought out for breakfast or not).
(richardm, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 10:41,
4 replies)

The scientific term is Pavor Nocturnus....
...and the fear it produces is incomparable to anything I've ever experienced.

I'm asleep, basically. But I don't know this when it happens. Please remember that as you continue to read. All I know is I'm lying in bed, completely paralyzed from my head to my toes. And then they come. 'They' are the barely-glimpsed demons that I catch in the dark through the needle-like gaps in my eyelids that it takes every ounce of strength in my body to force open. They creep, at first, around my bed; clawing at the covers and whispering to each other. The whispering gets louder as they circle. They have eyes of fire and feathers on their heads. They appear to be discussing me and, in doing so, getting angry. As they get angry they start to beat, claw and kick me. I still feel the blows despite the physical paralysis. I want to scream but I can't. The covers are removed completely and the whispers turn to screams - other-wordly shrieks of malicious, hateful intent. With every fibre, sinew and muscle in my body I'm trying to move; to run or defend myself. But I can't. I can feel tears rolling down my face. I can feel sweat on my face. But I can't move an inch. I am, certainly, about to die in a most horrific way. Sometimes I'm hauled on to the floor or thrown against a bedroom wall. Sometimes I'm just set-upon and torn to pieces where I lay, stricken and immobile. But the savageness of their attack, the acrid smell of death upon their breath and their terrifying, dripping maws are always the last thing I witness before I wake up on the floor, against the wall or wherever they have deigned to leave me, caked in sweat, shaking and weeping.

The doctor calls them Night Terrors and, as they only occur once or twice a year, hasn't deemed them worthy of treatment.

Back from the dead...
Back when keeping pet hamsters was cool, guess what? Yes, we had a hamster. As was the usual course of events it eventually passed away. My sister discovered his lifeless and motionless corpse when she attempted to sequester him for his morning exercise routine. She was only about 7 at the time so the whole traumatic experience made her quickly become overcome with emotions and she rushed off in tears to fetch my dad. My dad,ever the consummate professional when it came to matters which required emotional integrity, displayed his usual sense of decorum and consideration by announcing on arrival at the scene of the dead rodent, "Mmm...yes it looks rather dead". Sensing my sisters complete and utter dismay and the current turn of events he then deigned to console her by saying, "Don't worry, we'll bury it when I get home from work". The exact words my sister then howled through her snot and tears escape me now, but they were suffice to say sufficiently moving to have my dad move the funeral forward some several hours to the morning.In fairly short order a funeral procession was making it's way out to the garden being lead at the front by a dead hamster majestically perched on the end of a small garden spade.

A burial ground was chosen post hast and we all watched as dad, who was resplendent in his work suit and shocking pink tie, got to his knees and dug a small hole to dispose of our most recently deceased family member. The rodent was unceremoniously dumped into the hole as the musky smell of the malboro hanging from dads lips drifted across the mourners.Dad's curt "Right!", pretty much signalled the end of the burial and we all shuffled back inside to start the difficult and unloved task of getting ready for school.

The death played on my young mind for some time after that, but by the time I had my school shoes on most of the grief had subsided. When I arrived at the school gates and had a quick game of footy I had all but recovered my composure and by the beginning of first break I had all but forgotten we even had a hamster. The crushing realisation of the sudden tragedy that had befallen our family was brought back into my consciousness in a surreal and creepy manner when I returned home that afternoon.

My sister found the corpse of the hamster on her bedroom floor not far from the scene of his former home. His dirt covered body lay motionless on the floor. Seemingly back from the dead was he trying to make his way back to his cage? My sisters poor mind exploded into implausible howls of confused tears. We all rushed to the scene and for the briefest of moments the logic of this whole surreal event threatened to elude us. However, as this all unfolded our dog Benji quietly slunk out of the room and was scarcely to be seen for the rest of the day.
(The Archduke of South LondonI'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 14 Apr 2011, 9:35,
6 replies)

This QOTW prevented me sleeping, cheers. I did the most awful Ouija board one night though, first time ever, all excited and old enough to know better. No reply for ages then finally in answer to my increasingly desperate 'is anyone there?' the glass shifted to Yes. Relieved, I asked 'do you want to talk?'. The entity clearly dithered for a bit then replied in the negative. The board we were using was old and still dusty so I thought perhaps this was the problem. This time I asked 'is the board too dirty?'. 'YES''well, shall I clean it then?'. 'YES'I duly polished the board till it sparkled, then replaced it. 'is that better?' I ventured timidly.'YES''do you want to speak now then?' I pleaded.'NO. GOODBYE'Just my luck to get a fastidious entity.
(resurrection_marycannibal_ferox, Sat 9 Apr 2011, 9:28,
3 replies)

The unit I work in deals with quite a lot of sensitive and confidential information.
As such, we have huge metal filing cabinets, which have shelving units inside that rotate.

To rotate them, you must release them with a foot pedal. It's a very basic mechanism, and often jams a bit, requiring a few tries. As such they clank quite a bit.

My unit used to sit next to these cabinets, and one day a guy came along to use one. This guy is a stereotypical nerd. He's in his late 40s/early 50s, really fancies himself as "intelligent" and does, as he pronounces it, "kahrahtay". I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he's a virgin.

He pushed the foot pedal and got no response, and kept trying, resulting in quite a bit of noise.

Ever jocular, my boss said to him, "Oh Steve, are you breaking the cabinet again?"

The Grey Lady
During that period of limbo between graduating uni and getting my first proper job, I was forced to join the administrational workforce in order to scrape a few pennies together. I got myself a temp job in the university’s student funding office.

It was a pretty good job. I was free to search and apply for jobs all day (as long as I got my work done) and it was pretty fun trying to catch out the students who were trying to squeeze as much extra money out of us as possible – one had even gone to the trouble of scanning, and then photoshopping, their bank statement. Top marks for creativity, just bad luck that his application was dealt with by someone very well versed in photoshop.

Those of you who have attended Coventry University will possibly know where the student centre is (by the library) and that the Gulson hospital is directly opposite. Most of the hospital has now been demolished to make way for something or other; but before it was destroyed, it used to be used as storage space for the Student Centre.

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how awful hospitals are.

Even up-to-date, busy hospitals are pretty creepy. The Gulson hospital was one of those old-school, bare bones style places where the concept of anaesthetic would have been classed as a ‘new fangled medical advance’.

This hospital was empty.

The first time I heard about it was when the girls in the office were arguing over who was going to go over. No one wanted to go on their own and since I’m a bit of a hardcore horror freak I volunteered to accompany whoever needed to go.

We pushed open the double doors into a long corridor. There were a number of double doors set at intervals all the way up the corridor and I could see that one section of corridor was in complete, unnatural darkness. It could have been taken straight out of any generic horror movie.

Setting off at a trot, we made our way towards the next set of double doors and pushed through into the darkness. I looked behind and saw the words ‘Dental Ward’ written on the window. Ahead of us was a small staircase with no banister leading to a teeny pointless door – the size of the door just seemed even creepier – it was like a portal to hell.

Back out of the darkness and into another light section of corridor, we finally found the right place – an old treatment room next to a gurney and tray that had been left there as if the hospital had been evacuated in a zombie apocalypse. We got to work finding the files in the storeroom. It was ok in the store room but soon we had to leave and make the short but terrifying journey back outside.

As we made our way through the dark section and pushed the double doors, we heard a shuffling noise behind us. I looked at Nikki, she looked at me and we broke into a frantic run for the safe outdoors.

The hospital had an awful atmosphere; it was like you were being watched. For no physical reason at all, it was just the kind of place you couldn’t wait to get out of.

I only ever went back once more. I was feeling adventurous so I went alone.

This time the lights that worked were flickering in the first section. Joy.

I was determined to be a grownup about it so on I went through the flashing bit, then into the darkness. I turned and looked into one of the empty treatment rooms on my way – there were still bits of hospital equipment littered around which did not help to ease the asmosphere. I finally reached the store room. The gurney was still sitting there begging me to question why it was still there.

I unlocked the store room and went ahead finding my files. Soon it was time to leave. I was congratulating myself on how well I’d fared in the haunted hospital on my own but my pride was to be short lived as I put the key in the door to lock the store room and turned.

Fuck

It wouldn’t turn!

I threw all my weight against it and it wouldn’t go. I double checked the right key, took the key out and tried again it just wouldn’t turn. I was starting to get panicky now as all I wanted to do was leave, I felt like I needed to get out soon or else something bad would happen. After what felt like hours, I took a slow breath and – hallelujah – it turned, it clicked, it locked.

Now I needed to get out, but I was still determined to be brave. I strode through the dark section and back into the flickering bit. The last door was in sight, beyond that, there was freedom.

Turning back to close the door, I spotted something up the corridor. Next to the gurney by the store room where I had been standing minutes previously tussling with the lock there was something weird. It looked like a dust-cloud – but nothing could have created it. The hospital was old but it wasn’t dusty. The translucent cloud just hovered there in mid-air. I was transfixed for a moment until the flashing light switched off and I broke into a terrified scramble for the outside world.

I spoke to my colleagues after this who told me that the hospital is said to be haunted by a grey lady. Is that what I saw?
(KatzillaFollow Me! @Kat_Zilla (I don't promise funnehs), Mon 11 Apr 2011, 14:46,
8 replies)

One of my students (foreign learners of English) asked me what creepy meant
I explained that it's the difference between "mm, you smell nice" and "hnnnnghhh, you smell nice."
(Grrrmachineyour existence is still meaningless, Sun 10 Apr 2011, 20:56,
2 replies)

English oral, (Easy Madam)
No, that thing in English class where you stand at the front and give a talk about a topic of your choosing. One kid did about his football team, someone did about his model plane that he flew and so on. I was at a loss as I didn't have any activities at all. No sports or hobbies or anything. I used to read a lot, but that was no good. Apart from that, the only thing I really did was 'larked out', usually on my bike, so that was a non-starter too.

I went to the local library and looked for inspiration. I then noticed a bright yellow yet innocuous looking book "The Nuclear Survival Handbook" by Barry Popkess."Ooh, that looks interesting" I thought. I took the book out and read through it cover to cover. It was fascinating. I began making notes in anticipation for the English lesson in a couple of days time.

I sat down in my English lesson and the teacher checked her list of people who hadn't done their talk and was about to pick someone when I put my hand up.

"I'll do it Miss", and everybody looked at me. Nobody, and I mean nobody had volunteered and nobody had relished the idea of standing at the front talking about something. I snatched up my notes, and wandered to the front whilst the teacher went and sat at the back of the class.

"Right" I said. Nobody really heard, "RIGHT" I said in a stentorian voice, people looked up. "My speech is on the effects and aftermath of a nuclear attack". People fell silent, the teacher perked up. This was late 1986, not long after the Reykjavik Summit where Reagan refused to scale back his strategic missile defence. A program that would cause a significant imbalance in the arms race. The cold war was reaching quite a tension, the thought of a nuclear war sitting at the back of everybody's mind like the elephant in the room, a thought that nobody wanted to talk about.

Except me.

I started. I talked about the preemptive attack by the Soviets in response to the imbalance in the arms race, getting a shot in before the US could build a system to block the attack. I described in detail weapon yields, the myriad targets in the UK including Greenham Common which had been on the news a lot, how the missiles would come from Eastern Europe and from submarines in the North Sea. How the 4-minute warning was meaningless.

I then described in exquisite detail the effects on a 5MT airburst above the centre of Hull. How everything in a certain radius would just vapourise and what vaporisation meant.

I then turned around and drew a rough sketch of Hull and the surrounding area and began drawing concentric circles explaining what the level of devastation would be in that area. Then I turned to the aftermath. The fall of civilisation, the nuclear winter, radiation poisoning, increased cancers, the works.

After about 7 minutes, I finished. Most talks lasted 3 minutes, tops. The class was silent, kids were wide-eyed. I stood there and looked at them for almost a minute. Nobody moved, nobody made a sound. The teacher looked shocked and didn't say anything. A couple of kids then ran out, I could hear sobbing from a couple of girls near the front.

Eventually the teacher came to the front and said "thank you for a graphic talk" and sent me to my seat. The rest of the class was a bit subdued after that and it took a good 15 mins before the atmosphere had picked up again.

She collared me at the end of the class and said that my subject was ill-advised and rather macabre and disturbing. But, she said it'd be wrong to mark me down on it and she actually gave me an A*. Yay me!
(sandettie light vessel automaticNew Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 13:03,
8 replies)

Mutilated skull
I'm walking along the street, whistling a happy tune. There's a large lorry parked by the side of the fairly narrow pavement, but there's room to squeeze past between it and the fence. As I pass, suddenly something lolls out of a gap in the wooden slats mere inches from my face.

I look up. It's pink and fleshy, with clumps of hair sprouting from it. It's scarred and caked in filth, but in a flash I recognise it as a deformed, shrivelled human head. Worse, where the eye should be there's just a gaping, empty socket, caked in blood.

I let out a yell that caused cyclists to swerve and a flock of birds to wheel frantically into the air, and lurch back against the fence beside me, cowering as far away from this ghastly apparition as I can.

From where I can see that it is, in fact, a cow's nose. The "eye socket" was its nostril.

After leaving the pub, slightly worse for wear, I decided to take a shortcut through the graveyard. Would save me 10 minutes. So I hopped over the wall and continued my lubricated stagger. Then I heard:

"chink, chink"

"WTF was that?" I thought

Even though I don't believe in ghosts and ghoulies and 6-legged monsters and things that go bump in the night - this noise raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

"chink, chink"

There it was again. It sounded close this time. I continued walking.

"CHINK, CHINK"

Right in front of me. Behind that big gravestone. The one with the fresh grave. Heart in my mouth, I peered over the gravestone......

Squatting on the ground was a wizened old man, with a hammer and chisel, and he was marking the gravestone. A stonemason! A fucking stonemason!!

Weak with relief I said:

"Fucking hell mate. You scared the crap out of me. I thought you were a ghost! What the hell are you doing working at this time of night?"

Ninjas In The Dark
One of my creepiest experiences started out with a bad decision....

One evening, as was customary, I left my house to walk my dog, Sparky. Walking along, we came out onto a main thoroughfare. On the sidewalk across the street, passing by in the half-light of the street lamps, I saw six men dressed head-to-toe in black. They had a lethal nonchalance that I disapproved of. These men - jackals, really - seemed not only strange, but menacing too. I decided to follow these assassins from a distance, in order to convey the weight of my disapproval, and by extension, what I presumed to be the neighborhood's disapproval too, by my obdurate witnessing presence.

The ninjas' progress carried them through a well-lit freeway underpass. Sparky and I followed. On the other side of the underpass, the ninjas uncharacteristically scattered into the darkness. They started meandering aimlessly into the darkness for no apparent reason. Indeed, our progress on the walk carried us completely through the cloud of meandering ninjas, so now they were behind us, rather than in front.

One of the ninjas approached and asked for a cigarette. I had none to offer. Nevertheless, he didn't seem that menacing in person. The overall air of menace diminished, and my guard relaxed. Sparky and I pressed on. We came to a dark and desolate street corner, where the view was obscured by large trees....

Ambush! Suddenly ninjas approached from several different directions, handkerchiefs now obscuring their faces. One of the ninjas held at arm's length what appeared in the darkness to be a silver rectangle sporting a small dark circle. It took me several seconds to realize that I was looking at the business end of a pistol.

They seemed nervous; I was petrified. The ninjas demanded that I empty my pockets, but I had only keys; I left my money at home. Then they demanded that I remove my shoes. I did not understand the shoe demand, but I was no longer in a position to remain obdurate, so I complied. (Apparently nighttime pedestrians will sometimes place money in shoes; hence the demand.) Meanwhile, Sparky wagged his tail and attempted to make friends (some protection this canine offered).

Satisfied, the ninjas released the both of us. We walked away into the darkness, and then we started running (me in socks) on a circuitous, kilometer-long path that ended up back at the house (Sparky liked this part of the walk best). I was deeply-worried, because they now had my house key, and my car key, and they knew approximately where I lived. It would be only a matter of time before they located my house, and robbed me again, or stole my car, or perhaps showed me, by example, the power of a pistol.

Arriving home, I quickly opened the hood of the car and disabled it, by pulling fuses. I quickly slammed shut and locked the doors of the house (I had left the back door completely open on this summer's night). Then, I picked up the telephone and called the police.

While talking to the emergency operator, looking out through the windows at my car in the driveway, I saw something that made my blood freeze. Coalescing out of the darkness next to my car, a ninja appeared. The jackals had arrived!

I started shouting, and the ninja saw me through the window. He could see in the half-light that I was talking to someone on the telephone (probably calling the police). He vanished back into the shadows. In a few minutes, the police arrived....

The next day I placed locks on all the windows, and had my door and car locks redone. And I also recovered my shoes; abandoned on the street corner. For the next several nights, though, I was really messed up. I had a hard time sleeping, and once I awoke to what I thought was my doorbell. I called the police again, certain that the ninjas had returned, but I eventually realized that the doorbell was entirely in my sleeping imagination. My mind was fighting phantoms; but not entirely phantoms. Some fears are real.

The main legacy is I no longer follow strangers in order to register my disdain, no matter how they are dressed (unless they are dressed like nymphettes, or something).
(Perv With A Doghad his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Mon 11 Apr 2011, 8:34,
3 replies)

Not mine
But I remember being told this story a long time ago and it still creeps me out.Ive actually got goosebumps right now.A friend of mine related this tale late one morning at a party when there were only a few of us left and we got into telling ghost stories, as you do when its early morning and youve had a few drinkies.When he was 11, his parents were having marital difficulties and he was sent to stay with his gran for a while.She lived on a farm in Yorkshire, it was once part of a quite large estate and there were a lot of rundown unused buildings, including another derelict farmhouse across the courtyard that had burnt down some time in the 50's.He said he had a great time, gran was indulgent and he had loads of places to explore and build dens in.He had also made friends with a couple of local kids, a brother and sister, and this being the early 70's they pretty much went and did what they pleased away from all adult notice.Then the evening came that his gran told him that his dad was coming to take him home the next day.Although he was happy to go back home he was upset that he couldnt let his new found friends know, so asked his gran if she would tell them, told her their names and he remembered that his gran looked a bit odd, but patted him and said she would.That night as he went to bed, he looked out the window and saw his 2 friends waving at him from the upstairs window of the burnt out farmhouse opposite.He waved back and they smiled and then seemed to step back out of view.When he was 16 his gran got ill with angina and he went with his parents to stay a while while they looked after her.One night he asked about the friends he had made while staying there, were they still there etc, he'd like to meet up with them.And his gran told him that he couldnt have known them because they died in a fire in the other farmhouse before he was born.

I dont think this was BS because the way he told us this was just too real to be a lie, he was ashen and scared.Years later he wouldnt talk about it at all

Would you like sugar with that?
Now I know some of you will find my lack of morals creepy, and others will simply put this tale into the category of utter fantasy because their Mrs is a fat frigid monsterpig and since it hasn't happened to them, it simply can't happen to anyone else. However, I'm a bit of an alleycat, I enjoy a liberated sex life, thanks to this here Interweb thang, and good old Swingers clubs.

Well, a couple of years ago, I met a really nice couple in a club (Ceasars in Balsall Common, IIRC, now sadly demolished), round about my own age (late 30s-early 40s) and it was obvious the wife found me agreeable. Now this wasn't one of those occasions where I was gagging to ball ANYTHING, I was enjoying their company so was happy not to rush things, to sit and have a drink and chat, like any normal person would do, and see how things panned out. I found the couple to be witty and down-to-earth, ordinary folk, no glaringly obvious character defects, just another long-married couple looking to spice up their sex life with a bit of something extra, and who had actually taken the step to get out and put it into reality.

They'd never done anything like this before, so I refrained from flopping my cock out, we exchanged numbers and I left it up to them to call if they fancied taking it further, not sure whether they'd make that last little jump into the world of Swinging.

To my surprise, and delight, I began to get texts to arrange a meet, and finally settled on going to their house the following weekend when they had packed their sons, who were aged around 10 and 12, off to Grandma's house for the night. They lived in an up-market part of a nearby town, I was really looking forward to this meet, they were my kind of people, I felt like I'd known them years.

We had a few drinks, and progressed on to the bedroom, blah blah, we were having a great time. Then, in one fell swoop, things began to fall apart. Now in my time I've veered away from licking stinking maws that were once minges, I've focussed on other things than a woman's third nipple, I can grit my teeth and carry on regardless and not let it spoil anyone's enjoyment of the evening by causing a fuss. However, this occasion was beyond anything I've faced before or since:

The woman squirted my face with tit milk.

Jesus, I can feel my tea rising just typing it, I was stunned. "Open your mouth" she said. "It's great" her hubby chimed in. NO. FUCKING. WAY. My raging boner subsided into its normal miniscule acorn size. And then inverted for good measure. My night was finished there and then, several beers over the limit to drive home. What a disaster.

The thing is, if she'd have been nursing, I could live with that, even though I've no desire to taste her milk, that's between her and her baby. Nothing wrong with tit milk, obviously, it's natural.

However, this woman had had her last baby 10 years previously.

We did later discuss things (me with head in my hands), and she had no idea why she'd started expressing milk after so long, she wasn't one of those women who still had her kids clamped to her tit when they were at Middle School, but her hubby loved it, so she had encouraged it (I don't know how, I feel queasy trying to recall the detail).

One of their little games was for her to squirt him from across the room, whilst he tried to catch it in his mouth - anyone remember that dog on "That's Life!" that used to catch the soda syphon blast? Brrrrr, horrible!

Happily, we squared things up later on, she agreed not to squirt me with tit milk, and all was well, I still visit them from time to time. They both still think it was hilarious looking back, but I think my cock has never quite got as hard for her as it had been before the first squirt, regardless of how much fun we're having.

Oh, and I NEVER let them make me a cup of tea, just in case.
(Rsoles, Mon 11 Apr 2011, 21:39,
2 replies)

Night Hike
Many many years ago my parents managed to get rid of me for a few hours every wednesday evening by enrolling me in the Cub Scouts. And then on a Friday evening when I graduated to Scouts. I loved all of it. I learnt to skin rabbits, tie knots, shoot air-rifles and all sorts of fun things that I don't think they let the Scouts do any more on the grounds of safety. One of these being night hikes.

I'd finally worked my way up to 'Patrol Leader' and had my own patrol of 6 , slightly younger, Scouts. One of whom had only just come up from the Cubs. For a night hike, each patrol in the pack would work out a route to a certain spot (in most instances, including this one, a spooky church) and navigate their way there through the dark, leaving at 10pm and aiming to arrive at 12am. The troop leaders would meet us there and drive us back to the scout hut (I have no doubt they spend most of the evening in a local pub waiting for us).

One of the traditions we had on a night hike was, upon arriving at said spooky church at midnight, for all of the troop to sit in a circle in the graveyard and to sing a particular song. Those who had been in a while knew it and it's surprise ending. Those who were new did not but were encouraged to join in. I can't remember all of the words now, but it started:

A woman to a graveyard wentOoooooo-aaahhhhhhhhhhhShe was old and she was bentOooooooo-aaaahhhhhhhhhh

It was sung in a creepy, almost chanting manner and everyone joined in with the Ooooooooo-aahhhhhhhh bits, while the troop leader, Keith, would sing the main bit. The song culminates with the woman finding an open grave and speaking to the corpse inside (upon whom 'worms crawled in and worms crawled out'). The final lyrics were:

The woman to the corpse saidOoooooo-aaaaahhhhhhhhhhWill I be like you when I'm dead?Oooooo-aaahhhhhhhhhhhhThe corpse to the woman said....

At this point, everyone in the know would let out the most blood curdling yell they could, absolutely terrifying anyone who hadn't heard the song before. But this time it seemed Keith had got carried away. "AAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" he yelled along with the rest of us. Then "AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH"! "AGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" as we all looked at him. "AGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH YOU LITTLE SH.........BUGGER"!

Turns out my newest Scout, Ben, who'd been sitting near Keith's legs had not only pissed himself with fright, but had also sunk his teeth in to Keith's leg and wouldn't let go.

From that day on Ben was known as Gnasher and Keith had a lovely new set of scars on his leg.
(Big SmurfBrush me daddy-O, Mon 11 Apr 2011, 13:36,
3 replies)

Pray for us
I used to live in a little village with fields, woods, a church, etc. Very pretty and normal. My usual dog walking path took me over the fields behind the church and into some woods. Just as you entered the trees there was a small shrine. It was dedicated to St. Germain, a bishop who'd wandered through the area 1000 years ago and miraculously cured someone who was lame. There was a small pool, with stone steps leading down to it, and a tiny chapel - no more than a niche in a rock wall really, with a tacky religious picture and a grill over the front of it.

The pool was about 4ft long, and my neighbours had told me the legend that mothers would bring their babies to the pool and lay them in it. If they floated then they would be healthy. If one side of their body dipped under the water then they would be lame, and they should pray to St. Germain.

Usually the pool was covered in leaves and the place a bit overgrown, but one day when I walked past it was obvious that someone had cleared away the bushes and branches. Even the pool was clear. I stopped to have a closer look, and I noticed a piece of paper stuck into the chapel. Through the bars I could just read 'Priez pour nous, St. Germain', meaning 'Pray for us, St. Germain'. I just assumed someone was making an effort to clean up the place.

Next day I walked past, and there was a bunch of flowers laid at the base of the chapel, and another note, this one folded over so I couldn't read it. Obviously someone was taking this seriously. The next day there was nothing new, nor the next. But a couple of days later I came past and there was green ivy strands woven through the bars of the chapel. Flower petals were strewn over the steps leading down to the pool, and the surface was covered in them. A single tiny shoe, obviously for a baby, lay by the side of the pool. On the rock around the niche were the stubs of candles with the wax dripped down. I was very intrigued and looked through the bars to see if there was a new note. Sure enough, there was: 'A votre honneur, St. Germain', 'to your honour, St. Germain'.

As I stood there in the shade I suddenly realised that everything had gone still and silent. The dog had run off, there were no birds singing, even the wind in the trees seemed to have dropped. I literally felt a chill run over my body. Then I heard a faint whispering sound, almost a chuckling. I turned around quickly, convinced there was someone behind me, but nothing. I looked down to the pool: water was dribbling in from a small pipe sticking out of the rock, and then overflowing into a drain with a faint gurgling, chuckling noise. The flower petals stirred on the surface and the trees started to shake as the wind picked up. I hurried away from there, chasing after the dog.

Next day I didn't want to go past the shrine, and I took a different route. And the next day. But after that I told myself I was being stupid and went that way. The shrine looked empty, deserted. They ivy strands had dried and shrivelled in the bars of the chapel. The flower petals had blown away. Even the trees and bushes seemed to have grown back into the space, making it seem more wild. The water looked black, empty, dead. I looked into the niche. The previous notes had been burnt and lay in black ashes on the base of the tiny chapel. Now there was a new note: "À travers les rites des incendies, je convoque les vents pour vous envoyez à l'enfer". "Through fire rituals I call on the winds to send you to hell". I looked around: the bushes and trees seemed to be reaching out for me; the surface of the water rippled and moved. I turned and ran, and never walked the dog there again.
(Smaleis stuffed, Sat 9 Apr 2011, 17:22,
5 replies)

Whilst it's nothing on R. Jimlad's night terrors, it certainly scared the piss out of me.
I woke up in the middle of the night with shoulder-ache, so rolled over onto my side and nearly shat myself when something heavy, cold and clammy suddenly grabbed my face.

There were a few seconds of sheer panic (and probably some girly screaming) before I worked out that I'd fallen asleep on my back with my hands behind my head, and my arms had gone to sleep. When I'd rolled over, I'd tried to move my arm down by my side, but in it's bloodless state I'd only managed to move it about a foot before it had dropped cold and lifeless onto my face.

I keep hoping that I'll see someone else do this, as I reckon it'd be pretty entertaining to watch someone sleeping peacfully, roll over and slap them selves in the face before sitting bolt upright and flailingly try to defend themselves with unresponsive arms from an imaginary assailant. But maybe /that's/ just a bit creepy?
(luckybluecoat, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 14:44,
6 replies)

What Happens After
I can usually remember my dreams, normally nonsensical garbage, but very occasionally I have quite vivid and complicated dreams - the sort with plots, sub-plots and colourful characters, all of which making some kind of logical sense. About five or so years ago, I had a dream a few levels of vividness above the aforementioned complex dreams, that unnerved me to my core, and to this day, it still creeps me out just a little.

Normally, I am at least in some way aware that I am dreaming, quite how, I can't really explain - I just am. In this instance, I had no idea until I awoke, it was that clear. To this day I can remember all the detail, the feelings - everything, just like the memory of watching a brilliant movie, or having read an excellent book. I was on a cruise ship, standing on the deck at the bow of the ship. Below my feet were light-brown wooden slats that made up the deck, around the edge were metal railings painted white about 6/7 foot high (three rows with vertical bars every metre or so). Behind me would be the cabin area, but I never turned around to look at it - I was just aware it was there. The ocean was unnaturally calm - just very fine ripples. No land was visible, and it was getting late in the day. The sky was a beautiful shade of pastel blue, but was still quite bright. The sun was reflected across the silent water.

The reason I was there was to wait for the end of the world. There were some hours yet to go, but it was going to happen. I wasn't feeling upset, regretful or anything else - it was just like that moment you hear someone else’s bad news "oh, I'm so sorry to hear about that!" but inside you really don't connect with it. It's just an abstract concept.

Time passed - there was now an hour to go. A few people were now up on deck, milling about. I did not recognise anyone, and in all honesty, didn't care. The sun was lower in the sky - the day was dwindling and fine wispy clouds were picked out in a pastel pink, all reflected in the still calm sea. It iswas peaceful and wondrous, yet I was feeling somewhat sad - I was going to die.

More time passed; there was now 30 minutes to go. More people had appeared on deck, a few were up on the railings looking out, some were in groups, others, like me, stood on their own. Everyone was silent, maybe contemplating their demise. By now it has really begun to hit home, my life would be over and I started to think of my family - none of whom were there with me. Over the next 20 minutes, I thought not only of my family, but about the things I should have done, the things I should have said, the things I should not have said. Opportunities I had missed and choices I had made. For the first time in a long time, I cried.

Soon, it came to the end. 10 minutes to go, 5 minutes, 30 seconds.

10, 9, 8,

Still silence.

7, 6, 5,

There was no sun, yet the sky was still the same pastel blue,

4, 3, 2,

Resigned to my fate, I stood and watched.

1.

In the distance a flash of unimaginably brilliant white light - the only thing that it could be was some form of nuclear explosion - that is the only explanation I can think of.

Darkness. There was no pain, no heat, no force knocking me down, just an all-consuming darkness. I had no body, I was dead.

No pearly gates, no St Peter at the door like a halo-ed bouncer asking if I'd lead a good life, Nothing.Now I am not a particularly religious man, in fact not at all. I was brought up as a Catholic, but since my mid-teens seriously doubted that heaven, hell or even God, exists. Still, I am gutted. Throughout my life I've been lied to . There is nothing - when you are dead, that is it. Goodnight, folks, that's all you get. Show's over.

Hmmm. Something clicked. A thought - a nagging little nugget of concern. I struggled to bring it out of the sub-conscious and into my conscious thoughts.

"If I'm dead, and there is nothing, how the hell am I discussing this absurd situation with myself?"

It was like I had dug around in my pocket, produced a key, stuck it in a mysterious lock and found that it fits. Something was about to open. That one thought, that one concept was monumentally important. Suddenly I had the realisation that everyone has to come to that conclusion. That simple notion "I'm still here" is like a pass, a ticket allowing you to move on. I knew that whatever happens "after" was about to be revealed - it was like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. I was about to understand everything... An immense feeling of wellbeing descended on me - now I was about to learn whatever it was all about....

And that was when my alarm went off. I sat bolt-upright in my bed and yelled out most of the expletives I knew, plus a few I didn't realise I did. I was drenched in sweat, out of breath and was shaking like a leaf. So what the hell was supposed to happen? What was I going to discover?

For the following days I was a bit out of sorts - quite shaken by that dream. I was questioning life, my feelings on death, and what happens after.

A few weeks later, however, I was back to normal, having dismissed it - it was just a dream, that was all. Occasionally I remember it, like now for this QOTW, and how real it seemed, like no other dream I've had before or since, and that still creeps me out just a bit. I would love to know quite how my brain would have dealt with the "what happens after" part of the dream, but I guess one day I'll find out for real, just as we all will.
(theoriginalsteve<this space intentionally left blank>, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 14:36,
12 replies)

The Kinder Kid
I'm talking about the original monstrosity, not the slightly less offensive version they replaced him with.

The face of this fake-tanned, piercingly-eyed little fuck haunted our group of friend's very existence at school, because one of my mates made it so. He printed off, (in colour, mind) about 300 of this little cunt's face, cut them into individual kinder kid squares, and hid them. EVERYWHERE.

For months, nowhere was safe. You'd be in Maths, and look across at your mate taking out his exercise book to see his face freeze in an expression of abject horror. 'Fuck, Kinder Kid' - staring out from the simultaneous equations.

Remove your wallet at the tuck shop to pay for a chomp, and drop your 10p in shock. 'Fucking Kinder!' - weird side parting peeking over your Halifax saver card.

Almost a decade later, my friend was dismantling his bed, moving out of home and buying a house for the first time. He had to slide under the bed to retrieve a screwdriver, and as he did, he noticed a Kinder face, blue tacked to the underside of the bedframe - Well played.
(SigmaX0Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 13:25,
5 replies)

Lurkers
Or more specifically, me.I have been a member for 2 years, 7 months and 3 days, yet until yesterday have posted precisely fuck all. I had already been lurking for several years before I boldly decided to sign up and join these people whose exploits I had been reading about. I even had a story to post in whatever that week's topic was, but decided on rereading that it was surely destined for the fail archive (coward? or should more people look over their shoulder like this?)

I have watched the rise and fall of several qotw heroes and villains over the years: Legless going from popular funny poster to most unpopular with the haters; Pooflake's brief domination of the best of page with his clearly made up, but occasionally amusing euphemism-filled posts and then his disappearance; CHCB's hatred of boring parents then subsequent motherhood; Spanky's adolescent wank fantasies eventually getting him chased away; Bert shifting from being one of the gang to unpopular, incestuous weirdo; all those others who posted stories for a while then left "because it's not as good as it used to be".

I've laughed with you, laughed at you. I've viewed some of your profiles. I've followed you on off-topic, been amused and entertained by various conversations and arguments. I've even nearly joined you a couple of times...

Don't you think this all sounds a bit creepy? The longer it goes on, the stranger it seems to join in. Is there a section in the archive for creepy stalkers? Save a place for me.
(tangledupinbluewhat will survive of us is guffs, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 12:29,
7 replies)

Reading the headlines
this morning, I came across something that disturbed me deeply. I can't imagine the eldrich horror of seeing this in person- what I saw online was enough to give me the shudders...

Paedo by proxy and others.
All those books, with their soft-focus white jackets of a small tearful child. The stories are harrowing, horrifying tales of abuse, usually with some life-affirming ending. I can see why some survivors of such things would want to get a message out, but it's a bit past that now, isn't it? It seems to have become some sort of porn, greedily devoured by people who just can't seem to get enough of reading about the tings that happened to these people. The sheer number of such books means there must be a huge market for them. Fuck, Tesco even had a whole section devoted to them at one point.It's not just the subject of these books that creeps me out, it's the industry that's formed around it and the people who lap it up.
(Colonel Boris"...a desperate Buzzfeed imitation...", Wed 13 Apr 2011, 14:43,
47 replies)